Trapped
by Genim Stilinski
Summary: Dean's so angry at Sam that he locks the poor kid in a closet. thing is, Sam's highly claustrophobic. Angry!Dean Claustrophobic!Sam Teen!chesters
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Written for the LiveJournal community, abused_sammy, prompt fest. Prompt: Dean locks a claustrophobic!Sam in a closet, knowing how it scares Sam, but too angry to care. (Reason up to author...)

* * *

Dean was seeing red. It was a wonder that he didn't have steam coming out of his ears, like he used to see in old cartoons. He sat against the closet door, holding Sam inside.

"Dean! Please! I said I was sorry!" Sam screamed from inside.

"No, Sammy, you broke the tail light of my baby." Dean spoke, leveling his voice as best as he could. It didn't help that Sam was pounding against the door.

"Let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT! Please!" The screaming turned to sobs as he continued his bombardment of the door. But, even at sixteen, Sam's strength wasn't enough to move the door _and _Dean. He began to fail wildly, kicking out and shouting at the tops of his lungs. The dark, miniscule room was closing in on him fast, and there was no out. He stopped screaming when he realized he wasn't really able to breathe.

"Please, De, I'll do anything. Just let me go." He stopped moving, trying to listen for a response.

"Sam, if you can't borrow my car without breaking something, or asking to borrow it in the first place, then this is what you get." He sounded a bit more like himself now, not quite as angry, but his words still spoke of his frustration. Sam backed himself against the door trying to get as close to Dean as possible. Although he was the reason Sam was trapped in the first place, he needed to be close. It calmed him.

"Dean, I'll help you fix it. I promise-"

"Damn straight you're gonna help me fix it."

"I need to get out of here, Dean. I can't breathe." True to his word, the hyperventilation continued.

"Yes you can, Sammy." A click at the doorknob. Dean locked him in. "And you're gonna stay in there until I get back."

"Don't leave me here!" He begged, tears freely rolling down his flushed cheeks.

"I'm going to get dinner, and then I'll let you out." The voice got farther away, and Sam heard the front door open.

"NO! Dean!" Sam stood and through himself against the door, which, much to his dismay, did not budge. "No!" The door closed, and Dean was gone. That's when the real panic set in.

Sam sunk back to the floor, running out of hope. Dean left him, and their dad just left for a hunt this morning. There was no one to let him out, or talk him through it. He was alone, facing the darkness.

He wasn't always claustrophobic. In fact, it used to be fun to slip into the closet in the middle of the night with Dean. They'd whisper stories to one another, mostly recycled from their father's and Bobby's hunting tales, and eat whatever snacks Dean could snatch from a convenience store or gas station without anyone seeing. It was their little secret. Until, of course, he got locked in a trunk by a poltergeist. He was twelve, and he and Dean were hunting with their father. Sam got separated.

It had been one of the worst experiences of his life, and suddenly, the closet became a frightening place. The midnight meetings stopped, and Dean never spoke of it to Sam. He had tried his best in the past to help Sam avoid tight spaces, but now, he was so angry that he used it against him. It was a metaphorical hit below the belt. And now Sam was curled up in the closet, struggling to catch his breath, trying to think of something other than how badly he needed to get out.

When Dean returned, all was silent. He didn't hear any kicking or screaming, heavy breathing, or cries or whimpers. All was frighteningly quiet.

"Sammy?" He called, setting the bag of food on the table. No response came. Thus, Dean edged over to the closet door quietly, gun in hand.

He unlocked the door, and turned the nob slowly. When he finally brought himself to open the damn thing, the sight he faced frightened him. Sam was in the corner, curled inward, eyes wide with fright.

"Oh my god, Sam." Dean mumbled, dropping himself and his gun to the ground, and crawling forward to his brother.

"You left me here." The boy spoke, eyes never leaving the corner opposite him.

"I know, Sam, and I'll never do it again. I'm so sorry." Dean choked back a sob of his own, guilty for all the terror he inflicted.

Sam's expression turned into a frown, thus causing Dean to pull him tightly up into his lap and against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around his abnormally large younger brother, hoping to convey what he couldn't say.

"I'm not mad anymore, Sammy. It's okay." He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Sam's shoulder.

"I know."

* * *

A/N: I have already been asked by several users on LJ to write out the scene where Sam is trapped in the trunk, so that's soon to come! I'll upload it as chapter 2, so if you're interested in that, I'd put this story on alert!

And as always, reviews are highly encouraged!


	2. Chapter 2

Sam sat on the cold cement, watching as Dean put the new tail light into place on the Impala. They'd been incredibly lucky to find one in the local junkyard. Otherwise, it would have taken ages to track down a replacement. '67 Impalas are kind of rare, these days.

He didn't have the know how to help, but even after yesterday's closet fiasco, Sam still insisted on sticking around while Dean worked on his car. He promised he would. Even though he knew he was pretty much off the hook, it felt like the right thing to do. Besides, Dean was in a far better mood since yesterday, and it was kind of…fun.

The doors were open, leaking the sounds of Led Zeppelin out into the motel parking lot. Dean belted out the words to Ramble On, one of his two favorites, as he put the final touches on the car. And Sam's eyes drifted to the trunk.

Recent events had dug up some…frightening memories in regards to that particular trunk.

* * *

August 23, 1995

Charleston, South Carolina

Dean pushed playfully at Sam's bony shoulder, still laughing at the fact that the younger boy was nervous to be going on his first hunt.

"Dude, relax. You're good. So long as you focus, you can fight and shoot almost as good as me!"

"You're stroking your own ego again, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, clearly not as amused as his brother seemed to be.

"Well, at least I'm not stroking my di-"

"BOYS!" John practically shouted from the front seat.

"Yeah, Dad?" Dean snapped back. It was practically second nature to answer that quickly.

"In about two minutes, we're going to be facing a poltergeist. Now's not the time to be joking around." By what Sam could see in the rearview mirror, he was more than a little annoyed with them. "Dean, when hunting, Sam is your partner. It's your job to watch his back, and his job to watch yours. No bullshit."

"Yes, Dad." They said in unison, having enough decency to keep their heads down for the rest of the short ride to the abandoned house.

One could tell that, despite its run down appearance, the house used to be rather beautiful. Vines roped their way around the wooden banisters of the front porch, and up onto the dilapidated roof. The wooden plats covering the house were painted white, but partially covered with moss. In a way, it was still beautiful.

All three Winchesters crept up the porch, guns and salt rounds at the ready. John pushed the broken door open, revealing a large room and a staircase, both covered in dirt, trash, and broken pieces of what appeared to be ceramic. The open curio cabinet, containing larger pieces of antique dishes, seemed to support that theory.

"The local legend states that her body's in the basement. I'm gonna head down there, but I need you two to stay put. Shoot her if she comes near."

"But dad!"

"No, Dean. I can handle myself. Stay with your brother." Dean sighed as he watched his father head to the basement door, and in.

"Great. My first hunt, and we get left to just stand here."

"What'd you expect, Sammy? Dad works alone, even when he has us. It's just a fact."

"I know, but-" Suddenly, Sam found himself flying backwards, outside. When he hit something hard, hot metal he figured was the impala, the poltergeist appeared. She, like the house she haunted, was elegant and broken. Pale as a sheet, tattered dress…she looked like she belonged in a movie about ghosts. She smiled rather deviously, and with a quick move on her part, she had him face down in the open trunk.

"SAM!" He heard Dean shout, but was too stunned to reply. And then it was dark.

* * *

Dean watched helplessly as the damn poltergeist shoved his brother in the trunk of their car. He called out, but there was no response. If there was a god, Dean prayed to him that his Sammy was alright. He also silently cursed himself for believing that Sam was ready for this. Then again, poltergeists were nasty spirits.

He shot off a round of salt-filled buck shots, none of which hit her, as she dodged them. The yard, full of junk, was the high ground in this situation, as she found things to chuck in his direction. Every time he tried to move towards the car, she'd chuck something else, and he'd jump back.

Dean tried not to listen to the pounding coming form the rear of the vehicle, no doubt, Sam. He couldn't however, block out the panicked shouts. He didn't know if they were from his brother, or from himself, but he was sickened by the fear he found there.

* * *

Sam flipped over as best as he could, wincing in pain as a stray gun pressed into his back. After moving the cold piece of metal weaponry from below him, he pounded on the trunk as best as he could. He didn't know if Dean could hear him as he screamed, but he did know that the trunk wouldn't budge.

He was trapped within.

The darkness was terrible, and he had no room to move. He was too long, so his legs were bent to his side, kicking at what was probably the back seat. His arms were at his sides, giving up on pounding into whatever they could reach. No where to go, he lay still against the trunk bottom, hoping that Dad would salt and burn the thing soon so that Dean could get him out.

* * *

Present Day

"What's wrong, Sammy? You look like you've seen a ghost!" Dean chuckled, throwing his used shop rag towards his brother's face.

"It's just…" Sam spoke, eyes fixed on the closed trunk of the impala. Dean noticed his gaze, and sat down with him on the curb.

"Charleston?" He asked, still feeling guilty for stirring these emotions in his brother.

"Yeah." He mumbled dropping his eyes to view his feet. He listened to the mellow guitar in 'Stairway to Heaven' (Dean must've switched to another Zepp tape), trying to find comfort in it, and the strength to talk about this. Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, attempting to give his brother exactly that.

"Dude, I know it's hard, but you can talk to me. I won't pick on you for it."

"I know. It's just that, when you locked me in the closet, I felt like I did, way back then. But at the same time, I felt worse. I knew that you weren't trying to get me out. You were keeping me in."

"I know, Sam, and I'll never do that to you again."

"I know that, too. But I can't shake these feelings." Dean pulled Sam in tighter, up against him. Hesitantly, he snaked his other arm across Sam's midsection, forming a hug.

"You'll get past them, Sammy. I promise." Sam leaned willingly against Dean now, reciprocating the rare show of affection. It may not have really seemed like it then, but it did get better.

And if not for Dean locking him in the closet, he may never have gotten over his fear of tight spaces.

END


End file.
